


Everything is Cool

by ElizabethWilde



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Brainwashing, Feels, Fix-It, Friendship, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Marriage, Pheels, Presumed character death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethWilde/pseuds/ElizabethWilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fix-it fic. Clint’s looking to move on with his life, maybe find what’s left of SHIELD and get some work done. He doesn’t expect to find out that his dead husband is running the place. </p><p>Could be considered a sequel to “The Hole Where You Belong,” but can be read as a stand alone too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song “Everything is Cool” by John Prine. See the lyrics at http://www.metrolyrics.com/everything-is-cool-lyrics-john-prine.html

“You need to do something other than work.”

Clint flinches at the words. It’s not what he wants to hear. It isn’t what he wants to hear at all. Since the fall of SHIELD, it’s been one grimy merc mission after another, and even with Natasha at his side, it feels wrong. The whole damn thing feels wrong, but it’s felt wrong for the better part of a year. SHIELD has nothing to do with it. Not much, anyway.

“Clint.” 

He looks up at the sound of his name, sharp on Natasha’s tongue. She’s giving him the look that means she’ll be slapping him across the face if he doesn’t answer. “Yeah, okay, fine, so let’s go get a drink.”

“Not with me.”

“Natasha, we both know-”

“I don’t know anything.”

Clint’s expression darkens, and he sits up straight, setting his bow aside. “You fucking know.” 

She leans in toward him and meets Clint’s angry eyes without flinching. “I know he’d be furious if he saw you spending all your time working and drinking. I know that-”

“You know I can’t do it, Natasha.” The anger falters, and Clint covers his face in his hands. “Just the thought of… of what? What am I supposed to do? Date? Go out in the morning, knock off a dictator or two, clean up, then go on a coffee date with a librarian? That’s not us, Nat. Even if… even if there was any way I could think about anybody else.”

Natasha leans back and finally sighs. “Alright. No dating. We’re going back, though. Back to the States. If there’s any pockets of SHIELD left, it’s there.”

“I don’t want-”

“You don’t want, but you need. We both do. This life isn’t us anymore no matter how hard we’re trying to make it that way.” She rises from her seat and smiles faintly. “Keep polishing your bow. I’ll make the arrangements. We’ll fly out tomorrow.”

Clint doesn’t bother questioning how she’s going to arrange it or why it’s suddenly so important. Natasha is right, and she knows she’s right. Arguing will just mean a week long freeze out that he’s not really interested in dealing with. Natasha can do cold like nobody else in the world. “Fine. Back to the States. Fine.” He’s so intent on going back to work that he misses the woman’s sad smile as she slips out of the room.

 

Days are hard, but nights leave Clint tossing and turning. It’s harder in the new apartment. As soon as they hit New York, Natasha insisted on it. They needed to be settled and visible, available to be found. It was a gamble since plenty of not-so-nice people wanted to find them, but two assassins living in a house weren’t exactly easy pickings. Clint had always wondered what Natasha did with the stuff from his apartment when they took off. He’d been too crushed to deal with it, so he’d told her to get rid of it all. She had just looked at him and told him she’d take care of it.

The first time he stepped into their new place, somewhere between nice and dive-y, he’d had a mini panic attack. It was filled with his things. His things and Phil’s things and their things, and Clint had still been curled up against the wall crying when Natasha came home. 

“You needed to see it,” Natasha had explained gently as she held him and let him cry it all out. “It’s still yours, still part of you.” She’d reached for his hand and looked pointedly at the black band still circling his ring finger. “You don’t have to let go until you’re ready if you ever are, but you have to keep going for him.”

Finally Clint had managed to come to a trembling halt and gazed up toward the ceiling. “So we find SHIELD if there’s any SHIELD left to find?”

“We find SHIELD.”

“Okay.”

In the darkness, Clint felt all of the things in his new room closing in on him. He had put his foot down at Natasha putting out knick knacks, had put them pointedly back into boxes over and over again until she rolled her eyes and gave up. Sleep eludes him, and Clint creeps over to one of the boxes, opening it up and pulling a few things out. The stuff isn’t anything special, but the memories attached to them leave him breathless. He remembers Phil picking up the stupid picture frame when they made an impromptu trip to Coney Island. It has awful shells hot glued to it and a few sprinkles of glitter as if it wasn’t tacky enough without the help. The picture inside is of the two of them. It was awkwardly taken by Phil on his phone, so the angle is terrible and they both look like idiots. It’s Clint’s favorite picture and one of the few in existence of the two of them together.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmurs to the photo, fingers tight against the poorly-painted sand and waves emblazoned along the sides between the shells. “I keep waiting for you to come home. It’s supposed to get better, and it’s not getting better. It’s getting worse. If I didn’t have Nat…” Even to the picture, Clint can’t confess that, and he stops to breathe heavily in through his nose and out again. “I need you back. I know I can’t have that, and I need…” The tears come as he’d known they would, and Clint hugs the image to his chest and finally cries himself to sleep.

 

They hear from Steve before they hear from SHIELD. Steve waltzes into the coffee shop that has become their “usual” with a smile on his face. “Welcome home.” He hugs Natasha and shakes Clint’s hand formally. “Tony spotted you on a security feed, figured I might want to check in.”

Natasha looked up at the security camera in the corner and gave a wave. “I figured he’d bother to show up himself.”

“Vacation with Pepper. She told him she was dumping him if he left. He doesn’t believe her, or so he says, but apparently there are some things that aren’t worth taking chances on.”

Clint smirks at that and waves Steve into a chair. “You hear anything?”

“About SHIELD?” 

Clint nods.

“No, but I haven’t been listening, not for that anyway.”

“Yeah, Nat told me. The Winter Soldier. That’s… that’s rough, man.”

“Bucky,” Natasha corrects before Steve has the chance. “Have you found him?”

“I’ve gotten close a couple of times with Sam helping, but nothing solid yet.” Clint realizes in that moment how tired Steve looks. He wonders if he looks just as wrecked. “How about you two?”

“Nothing yet, but we just got here.” Natasha shrugged a shoulder. “If there’s anyone left to find us, I expect them to do it soon.”

“Have you heard from Director-”

“Nick. He’s not anybody’s director anymore.” Clint tries not to sound bitter, but Fury stepping down and fading away felt like insult to injury while he was still trying to scramble to tie his life back together. “And, no. If he’s talking to anybody, it ain’t us.” Natasha and Steve have a nice chat, and Clint finds himself staring down at his coffee. Steve is a nice guy, but he’s also a harsh reminder. Seeing Steve reminds him of losing Phil. He breathes a sigh of relief when the man leaves and isn’t surprised that Natasha holds his hand on the way back to the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint isn’t sure why he starts noticing the slight brunette who sips tea in the back of the room and taps away at her laptop, but he does. Nat teases him about thinking she’s cute until his expression warns her off. That isn’t it. She is cute, but she’s also a hell of a lot younger than he likes, and, anyway, that isn’t why he starts watching her. He just does. He watches her, and sometime the second week, he realizes that she’s starting to watch back. To her credit, she only looks mildly terrified. 

“Working hard?” he asks casually, sliding into a chair at her table.

The young woman jumps. “Oh. No. Yes. Yes, absolutely.” Her accent is adorable, and Clint occupies himself trying to place precisely where in England she was born. 

Clint tries for an easy smile, but it doesn’t feel natural, and he finally decides to go for broke. “You keep staring.”

She tips her chin up, suddenly defiant. “You started it.” 

“Nope, pretty sure you did.”

Her shoulders slump, and she allows, “Alright, maybe. I was… I wanted to check on you.”

Clint blinks. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “Check on me?” 

She buries her face in her hands for a moment and groans, then closes her laptop. “I know who you are, Agent Barton. I know who you are, and I know who Agent Romanoff is, and I think we should talk somewhere more private. Please?”

Clint isn’t stupid. He knows looks mean fuck all when it comes to what someone can do, but he trusts his gut. “Yeah, okay. C’mon.” Back at the apartment, he continues to watch her. It’s a big risk letting a stranger into his place. He got her name on the walk, but that doesn’t make her not a stranger. “So you know me?”

The girl - Jemma - opens her back and pulls out the laptop. It takes her a moment to move through the layers of security on it, but finally the screen shifts, and a familiar logo floods it. Clint feels his stomach leap up into his throat. “You’re SHIELD?”

“I am.”

Clint takes a seat on the couch next to her and stares at the screen like it will tell him something more even without either of them touching it. “What… who… who else? Who’s left?”

She takes an uneasy breath and then fairly jumps out of her skin at the sound of the door.

Natasha walks in with a wary expression. “Am I interrupting?”

Snatching up the laptop, Clint holds it out to her. “She,” he points a finger at accusingly at Jemma, “is SHIELD.”

The girl waves uneasily. “Um, hi.”

“Who else?” Clint demands again, finally giving Jemma back her laptop. He’s almost shaking, and he realizes in that moment how badly he needs SHIELD to still be out there somehow. Phil died for the damn organization, and letting it go isn’t something he can do. He had convinced himself he was trying to find it for Natasha because she wanted to, but Clint aches with the sudden knowledge that he needs it too. “Please.”

Jemma takes another deep breath. “I’m a scientist. I’m currently working on a team with Director-”

“But Fury-”

“Director Coulson.”

It’s enough to bring Clint to his knees, and even then only Natasha’s arm around his waist is the only thing keeps him from going all the way to the floor. “You fucking liar,” he spits, still shaking.

“She isn’t, Clint,” Natasha warns him sharply. He feels the woman’s nails digging in through his t-shirt and forces his gaze back up to Jemma, who has frozen, standing in front of the couch and looking torn between fear and a desire to check on him. “She’s not lying, but she is going to sit down and explain the situation to us.” While Jemma complies, Natasha half-drags Clint over to the couch to sit as well. Only Clint hears the threat in Natasha’s voice. He feels the tension in the hands holding him up. 

To her credit, Jemma quickly does her best to explain everything to them. Clint hears most of it, but he feels like he’s having a stroke or at least another panic attack. “Why didn’t he find us?” Clint doesn’t realize he said it out loud until he notices that all other noise in the room has stopped.

Jemma swallows and looks down. “He thought you were… well, Agent Barton that is, that you… that you were dead. Or still under Loki’s control. I think that he was rather afraid to know otherwise.”

“Bullshit.”

Natasha’s tone holds a warning, “Clint-”

“No,” he snaps, shrugging off her touch and rising to his feet. “NO! No, I want to fucking know!” Clint twists the ring off his finger and throws it at Jemma. “Give him that.”

She lifts it, eyes widening in horror. “I- he- I came here-”

“Yeah, on your own. I gathered. Tell him I hope he has a nice life. Nat, you’d better see about a flight back the fuck out of the country because I am not dealing with this shit.”

“Clint-”

“NO!” He wheels and locks himself in his own room before either of the women can stop him. Whatever either of them wants to say, he isn’t in the mood to hear it because he hasn’t decided yet whether his heart is breaking or being healed.


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow Clint isn’t surprised when he wakes up in a room he’s never seen before. A cell. He winces and sits up, head throbbing and mouth dry. “Natasha?” he calls, praying for an answer. “Nat?” No one answers, and Clint sits up. Fear and the rush of adrenaline that always comes along with danger floods his system. Someone found them, or at least found him, and he’s in a cell. Again. “This shit gets really old, people,” he mutters to anyone who might be listening. There isn’t an answer, and Clint sighs.

He grimaces at the pain in his head and does a quick check. No blood or bruises mean that he’s probably been dosed. How is another question, but a less pressing one. Clint finds his feet and assures himself he’s mostly steady. He flexes his fingers, stretches, and readies himself to run, to fight, to do whatever he needs to do to get out of the situation in one piece. Clint tenses at the sound of the door sliding open.

The man who enters is entirely nondescript. He wears a black suit and carries a manilla folder and has a placid smile plastered on his face. “I hope you’ll forgive the rather unorthodox meeting, Mr. Barton, but we didn’t think you would come along willingly.”

“With somebody in an off the rack suit who looks like he’s about as interesting as watching paint dry? Nope.”

Not a flicker on the man’s face betrays any annoyance. If the shot landed, he doesn’t let it show. “I’m Agent Weathers-”

“You’re Hydra.”

Weathers blinks. “I-”

“I wasn’t asking. You are. SHIELD would’ve sent a person, not kidnapped me since they already know they can talk me into a sign up. Did it once. So you’re Hydra. You don’t know me.” Clint watches the man struggle through what was an apparently unexpected deviation from his prepared script. “Don’t let it hurt your feelings too much. It’s a nice off the rack suit.” Thanks to Phil, Clint has a pretty strong appreciation for a well-tailored suit, and the flunkie wasn’t wearing one. 

“Be that as it may, I’m here to-”

“Y’know, let me save you some time. Right now? I’d tell SHIELD to fuck themselves, and I like those guys. You dick bags? You guys are the reason I’ve been scraping for fucking merc jobs like a damn kid for months. Nope, we got exactly nothing to talk about, buddy.”

The man finally tenses enough that Clint sees it in the lines of his shoulders. “You don’t realize just how much we could-”

“If you need to torture me or something to feel like you put your time in, it’s cool. I’m sure I’ve had better, but, y’know, it’s fine. No hard feelings. It’s a work thing,” Clint continues in the same bored tone. “But I’m not joining Hydra, so fuck off. Seriously, you’re still standing there, and I need you to fuck off. You put me here, so until you take me home or leave the door open? This is my cell and, thus, my home. So out.”

Weathers sputters and mutters something under his breath about fucking SHIELD agents and then leaves. Clint is too smart to think he’s won anything more than a minor skirmish, but he hopes that if he kills enough time, Natasha will show up with guns blazing and get him the hell out. They both knew that leaving themselves open to Hydra would be the downside of leaving themselves open for SHIELD. Clint stretches and leans back against the wall. 

He almost misses the idiot Hydra goon because at least bantering with Weathers - if that was even his real name - meant not thinking about Phil. Phil who was alive and not dead. Phil who had apparently decided he wasn’t worth looking for. Clint’s fingers instinctively fly to the spot where his ring usually rests and find nothing. He winces. If he’s going to die in a Hyda jail, he wants the ring on. Conflicting emotions be damned, Clint wants anyone who finds him to know that whether his husband still gave a shit or not, he had one. 

The sound of the door doesn’t surprise him. The thugs in suits don’t surprise him. The chair Clint is strapped into does take him a bit off guard. The smiling, gray-haired man standing in the office sends chills down his spine. Clint swallows the bile rising in his throat and smiles right back. “Hey, you look like the guy in charge. Nobody else gets a suit that nice. You run this joint?”

“Take a seat, Agent Barton, or, of course, they can see to it that you do.” 

Clint swallows and takes a seat even though he feels like he’s lining up in front of a firing squad voluntarily. He shifts in the seat. “So what’re we up to here?”

“We are here to see that you comply.”

Clint snorts. “You didn’t read my file, did you? I’m shit at compliance, and that was with my husband as my handler. You think I’m gonna be a good little boy for you-”

“Not voluntarily, of course,” the man answers smoothly. 

“Great. Okay. So torture, mind control... Hydra staples. Got it. You gonna introduce yourself, or-”

“I will. Once you are someone worth being introduced to.” The man watches with apparently infinite patience as the flunkies adjust the equipment on the chair and stick some diodes to Clint’s forehead. “You will find, Agent Barton, that compliance is a desirable, even admirable.” His smile stretches, and Clint feels his stomach roll again. Silently he prays that Natasha is close, that she has his trail and that she’ll be there soon. Deeper down, he finds himself praying that she isn’t the only one looking.


	4. Chapter 4

Opening his eyes hurts. Clint lets out a low moan of pain that somehow comforts him. Being able to make a sound means he at least has some of his faculties left. He can moan on his own at least. Clint winces and forces himself to blink until the scene comes clear. He’s eye to eye with Melinda May, and that’s enough to wake him the rest of the way up. “Uh-”

“Don’t bother, Barton.”

Clint nods in response and lets her finish unfastening him from the rig. There’s another girl behind her, slight and pretty with tired eyes. “Hey.”

“The lady said to shut it.”

“The Cavalry is not a lady,” Clint slurs in reply, stretching to get the feeling back into his arms. He barely winces at the swat against the back of his head. “Missed you too, May.” He watches her press a finger to her ear, and his heart skips a beat. “Is it him?”

“We’ll be clear in five,” May answers instead, locking an arm under Barton’s and half-dragging him out of the chair. 

“Is he-”

“Not here.”

Long practice taking orders lets Clint absorb the words, and as the young woman takes his other arm, he tries to stumble along with them. Reaching the waiting van is an immense relief, and he passes out before they even pull away from the curb. Clint wakes in a dimmer room and jerks himself to alertness, fearful that the rescue was a hallucination. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” 

The words register before the voice does, and Clint sucks in a breath as a painfully familiar face comes into view. He’s suddenly sure that he is hallucinating and that any second he’ll wake up, and he frankly hates the idea of waking up.

“I know how much you hate waking up in medical. This seemed better.”

The words are almost a question, and Clint takes another breath, a slower one. “Did the girl… Jemma… did she…” 

He watches Phil’s hand disappear into his pocket, and he pulls out the ring. “I didn’t feel right putting it back on until we talked.” From the way he works the metal between his fingers, Clint can feel how badly he wants to. Phil’s voice actually breaks as he adds, “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.” In that moment Clint sees that Phil’s ring is still firmly in place on his finger.

“Damn it, Phil. You’re not allowed to- you don’t get to be the good guy!” Clint snaps, pointing an accusing finger. “You let me think- you let me mourn you. You let me wake up every goddamn day thinking that I’d never… that you…” The anger ebbs away more quickly than anticipated, and Clint holds out a shaking hand. “Fuck you, get over here.”

It obviously takes the words some time to process, but eventually Phil gives in and moves hesitantly over, sitting at the edge of the bed only to be pulled in close to Clint. He sighs and rests his forehead against Clint’s. “There’s been a lot going on.”

“That’s the-”

“Lamest excuse in the world.” Phil swallows and tangles his fingers with Clint’s. Clint feels the metal pressed against his skin, the circle of his own ring still in Phil’s palm. “As it turns out, coming back from the dead is messy and uncertain. I wasn’t sure I’d be okay. No one was. I…”

Clint feels panic welling up inside him. “You what?”

“I’m not okay, Clint. I would have found you, but I’m not okay.” He lifts his hand free, and Clint realizes it’s trembling. He’s never actually seen Phil shaking when there wasn’t sex or a high fever involved, and it’s unsettling. “We have no idea how long I’ll be… functional. It may not be much time.”

“Any time is better than no time.” The look of defeat on Phil’s face makes the decision for him. Clint clutches at his ring and jams it back on his finger. “You still want me to wear this, right? There hasn’t been anybody. I’m still yours.”

It’s enough to get a flicker of a smile from Phil. “I’m still yours. I just didn’t think-”

“With all due respect, sir, not your call.” Clint prevents any further protests by kissing the man, long and slow and messy and perfect. He barely notices that at some point he’s started crying, but for once it’s happy tears. “Even if it only meant a day, I’d take it, Phil. I’ve missed you so fucking bad I can’t even…” In the back of his mind, another question mark pops up. “Is Nat-”

“Fine. She’s fine. She checked on you while you were still passed out, but she wanted us to have some time.” Phil turns so that his cheek catches the uncertain light from the lamp in the other room. There’s a red bruise well on its way to purple there. “She said hi.”

Clint considers the mark, strokes gentle, calloused fingers over it, then smirks. “You deserved it.”

“I deserved it,” Phil agrees with a nod. “Though I’m pretty sure it’s insubordinate to punch the director of SHIELD. I’m thinking Fury had protocols about that.”

“And about lying to guys about their husbands being dead?”

“That too. Those were slightly less successful.”

“I noticed.” Clint feels the weight of it all dragging him down and falls back onto the pillows. “If you don’t lay the hell down with me and cuddle, I’m divorcing you. Right here and now. No paperwork, we’re just done.”

Though Phil rolls his eyes fondly, he also peels off his jacket and tie and climbs into bed. His body curls up against Clint’s side, and for the first time since he Natasha told him that Phil was dead, Clint feels safe. He feels whole. “You know,” Phil mumbles against his neck, “you barely even got tortured. Hardly any brainwashing at all. You don’t have to be such a drama queen about it.” 

“You sent May after me.”

“She’s part of my team.”

“You sent the Cavalry. You were worried.”

“I always worry about you.”

Clint smiles at the words and lets his eyes close. “Love you too.”


End file.
